Killing Time Read online

  “You’re a very well-toned eight, edging slightly toward a ten. Slim, but not skinny. Basically, I lucked out—because there isn’t a uniform size standard. You’ll need to try things on. Or you can buy them now, try them on tonight, and we’ll bring back what doesn’t fit.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Yeah, we can.” He grinned at her astonishment.

  “I’ll do that, then. Size eight, you said.” She returned to the racks, choosing four pairs of pants and four tops that she really liked. One even had sequins on it. From there she went to the underwear, where, to her dismay, the sizing was completely different.

  “This makes no sense,” she complained in frustration.

  “Size five,” he said, choosing a pair of minuscule black lace underwear and extending it to her.

  She eyed the small garment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about these?” Returning the black underwear to the rack, he pulled out a pair of red ones that looked even smaller than the black ones.

  “Definitely not.” The back was nothing but a small strip, and she knew exactly where the strip would have to go.

  Regretfully he returned his chosen item to the rack.

  She decided on a six-pack of “natural cotton,” tossed it into the cart, and moved on to the socks and shoes. Knox told her what size, she decided on a pair of sandals that looked forgiving about the shape of the foot, and finally they moved toward the front of the store and the hair section. Unfortunately, before they reached the hair section, they passed the makeup and lotion aisles, and Nikita found herself sidetracked again. She had to have a lipstick from this time.

  She had just turned to Knox with a tube in her hand, saying, “What do you think about this color?” when a woman behind him said, “Knox?”

  He looked around, and an expression she couldn’t decipher changed his face. “Ruth,” he said in that gentle tone he could do so well. He released the cart to hug the woman. “You’re out early.”

  “I could say the same for you, except I know you’re always out early—and late. When do you sleep?”

  “Sometimes I don’t.” His arm still around her, he turned toward Nikita. “Ruth, this is Tina. Tina, Ruth Lacey. Ruth is Rebecca’s mother.”

  Tina? Well, he couldn’t very well introduce her using her real name, since she was supposed to have left town. She extended her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Ruth shook her hand, all the while sharply studying her. The older woman was pretty and neat, with a good figure and light makeup artfully applied. Because she was a woman, she also noticed what items were in the shopping cart. “Have you been dating long?” she asked.

  “A while,” Knox lied easily.

  “I’m glad for you,” she said in a soft tone. “It’s been a long time.” Still, there was a lost expression in her eyes. She hugged Knox, and said, “I really need to be going. Y’all have a nice day.”

  She swiftly left the aisle, and when she was out of earshot, Nikita looked at Knox and raised her eyebrows. “Tina?”

  “I couldn’t remember your middle name. I knew it started with a T, though.”

  “That’s okay. Tina it is. My middle name would be too unusual here.” She dropped her chosen lipstick into the cart on top of her clothing, and they moved on to the aisle with the hair products. She chose a small pack of multicolored bands for her hair, then was ready to check out.

  “I felt sorry for her,” she said.

  Knox didn’t have to ask whom she was talking about. “I know. I think it really hurt her, seeing me with you. When Rebecca died, Ruth told me to go on with my life, but I don’t think she’s managed to do that herself.”

  “No,” said Nikita, her gaze turning inward. “Mothers never do.”

  18

  At the library they went into a small, narrow room with three microfiche machines lined up side by side. The room was dim, but the microfiche files were outside in the library’s main room, watched over by a bored young girl who made certain they signed their names on a list, along with which number microfiche they had. Evidently people had just been walking out with the microfiche sheets, though why anyone would unless they had one of the viewers, too, was a mystery.

  Knox and Nikita hadn’t had to hunt through file after file of microfiche film; Knox knew exactly which issue of the newspaper he wanted: January 1, 1985. They pulled chairs close together in front of one machine as he moved the slide around looking for the article he remembered. Nikita had to lean in to read the screen, putting her so close to him their shoulders bumped together. He put off enough body heat that she felt almost scorched, burning her even where they weren’t touching. She could bear it only a moment before she had to move away.

  He gave her a questioning glance, and she said, “The position was hurting my neck.”

  “You’re lying,” he said equably, turning back to the screen. “You want me but you’re still mad at me, so you don’t want to want me, and touching me is too much of a temptation. Do I have it about right?”

  “Fairly close,” she said, without expression.

  “That’s good to know,” he said, and winked at her. “Now, slide back in here so you can read what I’m reading.”

  “There’s no point. Just read off the list of items, and I’ll write them down, as well as the people who were there that you can remember or recognize.” She had his notebook, the one he made his investigative notes in, and he’d instructed her not to use her private shorthand.

  “Coward.”

  “ ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ ”

  “A coward said that.”

  “Would you find the damn article!” she exclaimed, then looked guiltily around to see if she had disturbed anyone. It was doubtful; there were only a handful of people in the library, and she and Knox were the only people in the microfiche room. Still, she felt herself go hot with embarrassment; she had spent a lifetime very determinedly not drawing attention to herself. She was distressed both because she had almost shouted in a public place and because he didn’t seem to realize the depth of her distress. No, how could he? She would have to tell him about herself before he would understand, and that was something she had never done. From childhood she had been cautioned by her parents not to talk about her origins, or her legal status.

  “Here we go,” Knox said softly. “Max Browning wrote the article. He still works for the newspaper, too. We can ask him some questions. Let’s see . . . the items slated to go into the time capsule include the 1984 yearbook from Pekesville High School, a cassette tape of the Top Ten in music along with a cassette player—smart thinking on someone’s part—photographs and a written history of Peke County, a copy of the articles of incorporation—though why in hell they thought anyone would be interested in that in a hundred years, I don’t know. There was also a copy of the local newspaper. That’s it.”

  “That’s seven,” she said.

  “That’s all it lists. The article says, ‘The mayor and others will place twelve items in the time capsule, including—’ then it lists the things I just read. It doesn’t itemize the other five. Shit,” he swore softly in frustration.

  “Who was there?”

  “The mayor, of course, Harlan Forbes. Taylor Allen. The football coach, Howard Easley. Edie Proctor, the school superintendent. City councilmen Lester Bailey and Alfred ‘Sonny’ Akins. That’s all it lists by name.”

  “Do you remember anyone else?”

  “Max Browning, of course. The former sheriff, Randolph Sledge. He retired a year or so after this, and died about ten years ago. The probate judge was there. I can’t remember his name . . . somebody Clement. He’s dead, too. There were a bunch of businessmen, my dad included, the police chief, the county commissioners. I don’t know their names, but all of that would be on record at the courthouse, and city hall will have the information about who was chief back then.”

  “Where do we go next?”

  “I don�€